


The Case at Bois-Sur-Le-Lac

by indiegal85



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiegal85/pseuds/indiegal85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poirot and Hastings are invited away to stay with an old friend of Captain Hastings at his chalet. However, their holiday is rudely interrupted when a murder takes place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

I have previously related many accounts of the exciting cases I have had the good fortune to work on at the side of the great Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot. However, I have never yet related the Case of the ........., even though for me, it is one of the most memorable yet. I have decided that now is the time to preserve the details of this affair and the surrounding events which, to me, are the reasons why this case is so well engraved in my memory.

It was a crisp, spring morning in early March when I received the letter that started it all. Rather unusually, it was an acquaintance of mine that led to our involvement in the matter and not, as is usually the way with such things, one of Poirot’s. We were breakfasting in Poirot’s rooms in our usual manner; with him immaculately dressed and polished for the day ahead, and me attempting to revive myself over copious amounts of coffee. My friend had just finished his second egg and was perusing the post, passing the one letter not addressed to him down to my end of the table. I opened it, noticing vaguely the grimace that passed over my friend’s face when I neglected to use the letter opener he insisted on keeping for that very purpose. The contents, however, were too interesting for me to worry about being chastised. 

“I say, Poirot, it’s from my old friend Major Carter!” I exclaimed in surprise. Poirot, who was neatly dabbing at his moustaches with his napkin, looked up and responded simply,

“ _Eh bien_?”

I took a moment to peruse the letter before replying. When I had satisfied myself of the contents, I paused to think. The letter contained an invitation that was, to me, very enticing, but I had my doubts that my Belgian friend would agree with me.

“He invites us to stay with him, the week after next. He is having a small group of guests to stay and would be honoured if we could join him.” I deliberately left it at that, hoping Poirot would get excited and agree before I told him exactly what he was agreeing to.

“But that sounds delightful, my dear Hastings!” he expostulated. “A week away with friends, what could be more pleasant! Where does he live, this Major Carter?” I tried to make my reply sound casual.

“He lives in Derbyshire, I think, but his invitation is not to there, but to his residence in France.”

“Ah yes?” Poirot questioned. “In which part of France?” Still attempting to make my voice sound light and nonchalant, I braced myself for the explosion which I was sure would follow my response.

“In the Alps, actually. He has a chalet there and he..” I got no further. Poirot had thrown down his napkin in disgust and was now glowering down the table at me.

“The Alps?” he cried. “You want Hercule Poirot to go to the _Alps_ in March, where there will be wind and ice and snow? Non non non non mon ami! You will never catch Hercule Poirot in such a place!” He rose, signalling the end of the conversation, and retreated to the kitchen. I sighed, folding the letter up and putting it down on the table. I could always go without him, I supposed, but somehow the idea didn’t hold much appeal.

 *****************

Later in the morning, when I had all but given up hope of talking Poirot round and resolved to go on my own, he lowered his newspaper with a sigh and regarded me across the room.

“So, you still want to go on this.. expedition?” he asked. I shifted uneasily.

“Well, yes, I do rather,” I replied uncomfortably. “I mean, I haven’t seen old Carter in a while and it sounds like it’ll be jolly good fun – he promises skiing and all sorts in his letter!” I saw Poirot stiffen slightly at the mention of skiing and regretted it the moment it came out of my mouth. Poirot detested any form of exercise save a gentle stroll round the park.

“And what is it like, this chalet of his?” he asked. My heart gave a leap. Surely he wasn’t thinking of coming with me? That would be too much to hope for! I considered my answer carefully.

“Well, I’m not exactly sure,” I replied. “But his wife is going to be there as well and she’s a jolly good sort so I’d imagine there’ll be all sorts of home comforts – fine wines, good foods and all that. Plus she doesn’t much like the cold so there’ll probably be roaring fires all round the clock!” He scrutinised me for a moment longer.

“Eh bien, I will come with you,” he said finally. I leapt up.

“Will you really, Poirot?” I cried. “That would be wonderful! I couldn’t quite bear the thought of going without you!” My friend smiled at me from where he still sat at his desk, and there was a hint of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on behind the smile. 

“For you, Hastings, I can refuse nothing.”

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

The next week saw us travelling by train, by boat and then by train again to get to Major Carter’s chalet in Bois -sur-le-Lac. Poirot was very quiet during the journey and I worried that I had unwittingly forced him to come on a trip that would be thoroughly unenjoyable to him. However, I could not think how to broach the subject without making the man more miserable. In the end, I kept my silence also and we passed most of the trip with little conversation.  We both stared out of the window as the landscapes changed and became snow-covered and despite the countenance of my friend, I could not help but feel the faint stirrings of excitement.

We were greeted at the station by Mrs Carter and a young man I did not recognise but liked instantly. He looked to be in his early twenties, with a lively manner and an enthusiasm that I found most appealing. Mrs Carter, herself a sturdy, amiable woman in her fifties, introduced him to us as Mr Charlie Havelock, the son of her widowed cousin who was also staying with them. She immediately charged herself with Poirot, who, I was pleased to note, had rallied his spirits immensely but still looked rather out of his depth. However, as I listened to Mr Havelock waxing lyrical about the various forms of entertainment there were to be had this week, I noticed him gradually relaxing under the care of Mrs Carter, and soon we arrived at the chalet.

It was a marvellous building. It seemed to be built entirely out of wood, with a terrace that looked out over the valley, and there was a blanket of snow covering the roof. Icicles hung from the balconies and the sides of the roof, giving the place a magical feel. There was a steady stream of smoke coming out of the chimney, which combined with the warm glow from the windows gave a very welcoming impression. My young companion beamed at us before bounding up the stairs and entering through the terrace doors. The rest of us followed with rather more care, the steps up to the door being covered in snow and therefore rather slippery.

“I’m ever so sorry about this,” apologised Mrs Carter as we made our precarious way into the house. “There’s a local boy who usually clears it for us but we had a rather large snowfall last night so I imagine he’s fairly busy today!” She closed the terrace door behind us and we started divesting ourselves of some of our outer garments. It was lovely and warm inside, with a smell of wood smoke emanating from the fire and tasteful but comfortable furnishings arranged in a pleasing manner.

“What can I get you to drink? The others are all still out at the moment I’m afraid, I came back early to help Mrs Carter come and pick you up!” called Mr Havelock from behind a large wooden counter across the room. “We tend to look after ourselves rather here,” he added, “It’s much easier that way. Ah, here’s Mother!”

A tall, dignified woman had just entered the room. Though she looked to be in her late forties, she still had a regal sort of beauty that was accentuated, rather than diminished by her fairly plain clothing. She was introduced to us as Mrs Havelock, and after shaking hands with myself and Poirot she proceeded to gently rebuke her son for leaving his outerwear scattered all over the furniture. I moved over to join Poirot by the fire.

“So, what do you think, old chap?” I ventured. Poirot looked up at me for a minute.

“It is nice,” he admitted. “Cold, but nice.” I smiled.

“It’s not so bad inside, by the fire!” I protested.

“True,” agreed my friend. “In a minute I might even think about removing my scarf.” I realized belatedly that unlike the rest of us, Poirot hadn’t taken off any clothes at all on entering the chalet and was still fully swathed in layer upon layer of clothing. I chuckled, but was prevented from answering by a group of people entering the room, looking flushed and windswept and as if they’d been having the time of their lives.  One of them, a bewhiskered chap in his fifties, looking rather stouter and redder than I remembered him, detached himself from the group and strode over to where we were standing.

“Hastings!” he cried. “Good to see you old man!” He seized my hand in a bone-crushing grip and pumped my arm vigorously. “And this must be Hercule Poirot!” He turned to Poirot and bestowed the same greeting on him. I noticed my friend trying not to wince and retrieving his hand as soon as was polite. Major Carter then introduced us to the rest of the skiers; there was young Mr Tavistock, a solicitor who looked fairly genial, Mr Smithson, a slimy looking stockbroker to whom I took an instant dislike, and a young lady, Miss Lucy Masters.  It had been impossible to tell when wrapped up in her ski gear, but as she removed her hat and scarf I realized that Miss Masters was an extremely attractive girl. We all shook hands, and then the company moved off to change. I watched them go, and then spotted Poirot looking at me with an odd little smile.

“This Miss Masters, she is very attractive, non?” he remarked casually.

“Well, yes!” I replied, aware of my friend’s gaze on me and hoping I wasn’t starting to flush. “Yes, she.. Will you stop looking at me like that, Poirot!” Poirot merely smiled, and I was relieved when Mrs Carter came over to show us to our rooms and thus turned his attention elsewhere.

******************

After Poirot and myself had freshened up and the others had changed out of their skiwear and into their evening dress, we all reconvened in the sitting room for drinks before dinner. There we were introduced to the final member of the party, Mrs Elsa Tavistock, the wife of John Tavistock, the solicitor. She was a pretty little thing, with fair hair and large eyes, but she looked rather too frail to be on such a holiday.

“Elsa doesn’t much like skiing,” Mr Tavistock explained. “I’m afraid she’s awfully bored here, but it would have seemed frightfully rude to turn down Major Carter’s invitation. My father was Gerald Tavistock you see, one of Carter’s best friends, who died fairly recently. Very kind of old Carter to invite us!” I expressed my condolences on the death of his father, who I had met on a number of occasions and liked very much. Mr Tavistock accepted them gracefully, and I turned my attention to his wife.

“So what is there for a young lady to do except skiing up here?” I asked. She gave me a wan smile.

“Not much,” she replied. “I spend most of the day sitting around here, unless the sun is out when I wander into the village and meet the other bored wives.” Mr Tavistock patted her arm.

“Next time we’ll go to the Riviera, eh Elsa dear? Oh, hallo Lucy!” Lucy Masters had joined us. I suppose my surprise at this rather familiar greeting must have shown on my face, for she smiled and said,

“Elsa here is my sister. Since John is now more or less my brother it makes sense to dispense with the formalities, don’t you agree?” I concurred, and then wondered how I had failed to notice the relationship. Now that I saw the two of them together, it was almost impossible not to. They were both of them fair haired and of a height, with large blue eyes and rather straight noses. However, the difference in manner was astounding. Where Mrs Tavistock was rather weak and delicate-looking, her sister radiated strength, exuberance and a sort of lust for life that was rather unusual in girls of her type. When the bell rang for dinner, I escorted Miss Masters through to the next room. I could see Poirot doing the same for Mrs Havelock across the room and chuckled to myself at the sight of them – her, tall, straight and dignified; him, short and round but somehow no less dignified. Dinner passed in a blur of small talk and amiable conversation and afterwards everyone retired early, claiming a need to be rested for the day ahead.


	3. Chapter Three

When we awoke the next morning, the sun was high in a cloudless blue sky and the mountaintops around us were glittering in the light. I dressed in my newly acquired skiwear and proceeded downstairs to breakfast. I found Charlie Havelock and Mr Smithson on the terrace, both dressed as I was and having a quick cigarette in the sun. Joining them, I was surprised by the warmth, having of course assumed that it would be cold at all times when surrounded by so much snow.

“Beautiful morning, eh Hastings?” the younger of my companions greeted me, as I stepped through the terrace doors. At some point since our arrival the boy had obviously appeared and cleared the terrace as that and the steps were now mercifully free from snow and not at all slippery. I agreed, and joined in with their conversation. My initial impression of Mr Smithson was now reinforced – I found him to be highly arrogant, very certain in his beliefs and his opinion of himself.

“Fine conditions today,” he remarked, “Not as good as yesterday though. Lots of powder yesterday.” He looked sidelong at me. “Probably better for the novices today though, don’t want too much powder when you’re learning. Of course once you get to my level you can ski in any type of snow! I like a challenge, Captain Hastings; the harder it is, the better I perform.”

I repeated this conversation to Poirot over breakfast, who looked amused at my indignation.

“But of course he is a better skier than you!” he said, surprised. “You have never been before! Why should he not show his superior knowledge?” I was about to say something about modesty and it not being the done thing, but then I remembered who I was talking to. Trying to teach Poirot about modesty was a lost cause.

**************** 

I spent a highly enjoyable morning learning the basics of skiing, which involved quite a lot of landing in rather undignified positions and sliding around on my backside. Charlie Havelock, who had very kindly agreed to teach me, spent a good deal of the morning laughing good-naturedly at me and hauling me back onto my feet, with the result that by the time we got back to the chalet for lunch we were on very good terms. Poirot, it seemed, had spent the time on the terrace in the sun, wrapped up warmly and drinking a lot of _chocolat_. We joined him and the ladies (with the exception of Miss Masters, who was off skiing) for lunch, then hastened back out again to make the best of the weather. By the time Charlie called an end to the day’s activity, I was confident enough to make my way cautiously down the whole of the small slope we had been practising on, and he announced that tomorrow we would join the others in heading further afield. I was rather pleased with myself as we made our way back to our lodgings for the night.

The second evening of our stay passed in much the same fashion as the first, excepting the fact that after dinner everyone felt much more lively than they had done the previous night. Instead of heading up early, we gathered again in the sitting room for more drinks (I had never realised that drinking was such an important part a skiing holiday). Myself and Poirot chatted with John Tavistock and Major Carter for a good portion of the evening, but Tavistock seemed less than absorbed in the conversation. I made a note to ask Poirot if he had observed the same thing later when I noticed my friend also seemed _distrait_ and was instead watching Miss Lucy Masters conversing with her sister with a small crease between his eyes.

*****************

The next day was as clear and sunny as the previous, and true to his word, Charlie took me further up the mountain where I attempted to keep up with the rest of the group. I had great difficulties with the rope tow and almost had my arms wrenched out of their sockets until Miss Masters very kindly showed me a posture that would be far more comfortable and easier to maintain. Major Carter charged down the mountain with little grace but phenomenal amounts of power and speed with Tavistock tearing after him, trying to keep up. I was amused to note that Mr Smithson was almost as ungainly as I was on skis, while Charlie seemed to hop down the mountain effortlessly. Miss Masters was very kind when I had difficulty with the slope, letting the others go on ahead and hanging back to make sure I wasn’t in too much trouble. I couldn’t help thinking that although this assistance stemmed partly from her instinctive kindness, it was also possible that I presented her with a marvellous excuse to escape from the presence of Mr Smithson who, in my opinion, had been rather more forward in his attentions last night than a gentleman should be. He had shown signs this morning of wanting to continue engaging her in solo conversation and it was with a faint flush of irritation that she had first arrived at my side to check on my progress. She seemed to have no objections, however, to engaging in solo conversation with me and we passed most of the morning making our way slowly down the mountain by ourselves.

Lunch was a rather strained affair with only Major Carter appearing indifferent to the atmosphere that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. While seated and in a smaller group than usual it was much harder than it had been before to try to keep Mr Smithson in check and we consequently spent much of the meal listening to him bragging about his achievements to Miss Masters while the rest of us threw each other nervous glances and attempted, unsuccessfully to change the subject.

“He’s just awful!” complained Miss Masters once we were back on the slopes again. “Why on earth does he think we’re interested? You should have seen the way he was looking at me and Elsa last night after he’d had a few brandies! I heard he was married a while ago but his wife died – there were rumours it was suicide and she’d had too much of him! I shouldn’t be surprised. Shame the old man likes him,” she concluded. On seeing my confused expression, she added “He’s Major Carter’s nephew, didn’t you know?” I stated my ignorance. “He’s completely oblivious as to the truth of the matter, that far from being a successful young businessman he’s a complete cad who should be pushed off the mountain!” She paused and glanced apologetically at me. “I’ve probably shocked you now, haven’t I, speaking so frankly. Never mind, shall we continue?” And she pushed off, still slightly flushed from her tirade.

  


	4. Chapter Four

I joined Poirot by the fire immediately on our return to the chalet, thoroughly exhausted by the day’s exercise and relieved to get inside. It had started snowing at some point during the afternoon and the occupation was far less pleasant when foggy than not. After a drink or two I felt revived enough to change out of my skiwear, and on returning downstairs I found that my place had been taken by Mrs Havelock. She seemed to be deep in discussion with my friend, but on noticing they were no longer the only two in the room cut the conversation off abruptly. With a nod in my direction, she rose and left the room.

“What was all that about?” I remarked, taking again my spot in the armchair by Poirot. My friend sighed.

“It seems she is concerned about her son.” I followed his gaze to where Charlie Havelock was standing with a cigarette and talking to Mr Smithson, Miss Masters and Mrs Tavistock on the terrace. “She is worried about the company he is keeping.” I was about to ask which of the three he was referring to when the door to outside opened and we were joined by the little smoking party. The conversation gravitated immediately to the day’s skiing, with a rather unfortunate emphasis on “the many spectacular falls of Captain Hastings” with which my younger companions were apt to mock me. Poirot listened attentively to this list of humiliation (at which Smithson, I may say, laughed rather more than is considered polite) but did not comment, only smiling slightly when Charlie began to act out some of the more dramatic episodes. I could not help laughing with them in spite of myself, and when my friend saw that I was not offended, it seemed to me that he cheered up too.

“So, mon ami, you are not too injured by the day’s activity?” he murmured to me in an aside as we prepared to go in for dinner. “Or by the tales of our young friends?” I assured him that it was all in good humour and part of the experience, adding with a smile that I was well used to being ridiculed after spending so much time with him. A sympathetic smile spread across his face.

“Ah yes!” he cried, “But who could not occasionally look somewhat trivial when compared with the great Hercule Poirot!”

That had not been my meaning at all.

****************

After dinner, we again sat up later than we had done on the first night. It had stopped snowing, much to my relief. Someone produced a deck of cards and Major and Mrs Carter, Mr Smithson and Mrs Tavistock sat down to a rubber of bridge, watched by Mrs Havelock and Mr Tavistock. Miss Lucy Masters attempted to engage me again in an analysis of the day’s sport but, somewhat to my relief, was distracted by Charlie Havelock who pressed upon her to join him for a cigarette and engaged her in discussion of her medical training, a subject which she was inclined to be very voluble about.

“You think it inappropriate that a young woman such as Miss Lucy Masters should train to be a doctor, my friend?” asked Poirot, when I frowned over at the pair as strands of their conversation drifted towards us.

“Not at all!” I cried. “Do you think me so old-fashioned, Poirot?”

“My apologies,” Poirot demurred, “I did not mean to offend you, Hastings.”

“That’s quite alright, old chap. I suppose you saw me frowning.. I was actually remembering a conversation we had after lunch that suddenly came back to me..”  I related what Miss Masters had told me about Mr Smithson and his inappropriate behaviour, and then remarked, “But it seems to me that Charlie is after the same thing, albeit in a more gentlemanly fashion!” Poirot regarded me.

“But not you, non?”

“Well, she’s pretty enough, I suppose,” I conceded, “But there’s something missing..” I trailed off. Poirot was smiling again.

“That je-ne-sais-quoi, you do not feel it! It is a sad day when even Hastings does not feel something for a pretty lady!” I bristled and glared at Poirot, but he didn’t seem even remotely abashed at his outrageous statement.

“Now look here Poirot,” I started angrily, but he brushed me off with a wave of his hand.

“Ah Hastings, you are so quick to take offence! I will go up to bed now, and in the morning all will be forgiven.” He smiled down on me as he rose, bade goodnight to all and ascended the stairs. I followed shortly afterwards as I was rather worn out, and in no mood to play bridge.

***************

I joined Poirot at the breakfast table the following morning, where as the little man had predicted, all was as it usually was. Poirot ate his eggs with his usual precision while I tucked into a large plate of bacon and eggs. Poirot was, in fact, unusually tolerant of my breakfast habits and advised me cheerfully to eat as much as I could to keep my energy up for the day. I was a good way through my second plate when Mrs Carter suddenly exclaimed,

“Where has Marcus got to? It’s not like him to be late for breakfast!” I looked up, and observed that she was right; there was only one empty seat at the table and it was past the usual hour when he would have arrived.

“I’ll go and knock for him,” said Charlie, wiping his mouth as he stood, “He won’t want to sleep in too late when the snow’s like this!” As he left the room, I looked out of the window. As I expected from Charlie’s words and the blizzard (or so it had seemed to me) that I remembered from yesterday, there was a fresh coating of snow over the terrace that looked to be about six inches deep. I sighed, wondering how hard skiing through that much fresh snow would be. Miss Masters leaned across to me.

“Don’t worry, Captain Hastings, I’ll look after you,” she said mischievously, inclining her head towards the door.

“He’s not answering,” Charlie said, coming back into the room. “I do hope he’s not ill..” He trailed off, uncertainly.

“I’ll go,” said Miss Masters, standing up.

“I’ll come too,” I announced, not liking the thought of a young lady entering a man’s bedchamber unaccompanied. “Just in case, well, you know..” I added, embarrassed. She smiled at me and we left the room, Poirot’s eyes, alert as ever, following us.

“Mr Smithson?” Miss Masters called through the door, knocking loudly. Charlie had followed us and hovered nervously behind me. She knocked again. “Mr Smithson? It’s Lucy Masters. Are you ill? Can I come in?” There was no response. She looked at me, unsure. I nodded, and turned the door handle. The door opened easily, and the room inside was dark, the curtains not having been opened. The room smelled familiar, an unpleasant scent I was sure I recognised. As our eyes adjusted, Miss Masters gasped and clutched my arm, pointing at the body of Mr Smithson who was lying face down, half slumped onto the bed with a ski pole sticking out of his back.


	5. Chapter Five

I dragged the other two out of the room and ran to get Poirot. He met me at the foot of the stairs, evidently having heard my panicked footsteps; one look at my face was enough to confirm what he already knew and he rushed past me up towards Mr Smithson’s room. Miss Masters and Charlie Havelock were still waiting where I had left them, looking shaken but holding it together. Poirot approached them.

“Mr Havelock, would you be so good as to go downstairs, call the police and inform the rest of the party of Mr Smithson’s death? Do not give them any more information than that until I am sure of what we are dealing with.” Charlie nodded gravely and left to go back downstairs. Poirot turned to Miss Masters.

“You are training to be a doctor, non?” She nodded.

“I know what you’re asking, Monsieur Poirot,” she said, and despite her pallor her voice did not shake. “I have never done anything like this before but I will try my best to help.”

“Bien,” my friend replied, his face grave, “Then we enter.” The three of us went back into the room and again the smell hit me, only this time I recognized it: the smell of blood. Poirot drew the curtains and then, taking care to touch nothing else yet, moved to examine the body. Now it was my turn to gasp. It was no wonder the smell was so strong, there was blood everywhere; all over the clothes of the victim, staining the bed and the carpet. I saw Miss Masters give herself a little shake and then cross the room in a businesslike manner towards the body.

First she checked for a pulse; as if any of us expected one with the amount of blood he had lost. She then began to examine the body more minutely. I turned my gaze from her and observed my friend instead; I was not squeamish, but I had never enjoyed the sight of dead bodies and this particularly grisly one was especially distasteful. Poirot was surveying the room, standing quite still as his eyes roamed over it, taking in every last detail. I had long ago learnt that where I liked to leap in with action, my friend like to stand back and do the work from a distance, usually with better results than us more impulsive types!

Miss Masters straightened up, her investigation finished.

“There’s no doubt as the cause of death,” she said grimly. “That pole has gone clean through – the end is protruding from the chest here.” She indicated to Poirot, who looked where she was pointing and nodded. She continued. “From the amount of blood and the state the body is in now I’d put the time of death about midnight last night. Death wouldn’t have been instantaneous so the murder would have had to take place a short while before.” Poirot nodded again.

“Could the blow have been delivered by a woman?” he asked. Miss Masters stared at him.

“I hadn’t really.. well, no, I don’t think so,” she replied, frowning.

“Thank you, mademoiselle.” He addressed us both. “We will now go downstairs and inform the rest of our party of what we know.” He paused, bent over and righted the flipped up corner of a rug that was placed in front of the fireplace. “Bon. _Now_ we will go downstairs.” We left the room, Poirot closing the door behind us. As we entered the drawing room, Charlie Havelock rose towards us.

“Mr Poirot,” he started, “The police say they have no-one equipped to deal with this kind of situation in the area and they’d be much obliged if you would investigate on their behalf.. It’s only a very small town, I think they’ve only got a couple of men up here!” After a moment, my friend replied.

“Bien, Poirot will take on the case. It will not be the first time..” he smiled slightly sideways at me.

“They are sending over a doctor though, to deal with the..body.” Charlie stammered a little bit over the last word and Poirot smile sympathetically at him.

“But what has happened!” cried Mrs Havelock from across the room. “You haven’t told us anything yet Mr Poirot!” Poirot gave her a little bow.

“My apologies, Madame,” he stated. He continued, addressing the whole room now, “I am sorry to have to tell you that Mr Marcus Smithson was murdered last night.” There was an intake of breath from a number of those gathered.

“Murdered?” shouted Major Carter. “But how? By who? Great Heavens, man, that’s my nephew you’re talking about!” Poirot turned his attention to him.

“I am very sorry, Major,” he reiterated. “By whom, I cannot tell you yet. As to the how, I am afraid he was stabbed with the ski pole that used to hang there.” He turned and indicated a space on the wall over the fireplace where yesterday there had been a ski pole, crossed with another and a pair of old-fashioned skis. I am ashamed to say that before Poirot had pointed it out, I hadn’t even noticed its absence. I crossed to the fire and examined the other pole.

“But Poirot,” I cried, “This isn’t even sharp!” Poirot joined me and spoke in a low voice that would not carry to the others.

“You are right, mon ami. But these ski poles were undoubtedly a reproduction of the ancient style of ski pole – you see the wood used?” I admitted it was different to the pair I had but was still unsure of his point.

“The ancient ski poles were not exactly what you would call a pair, Hastings. In fact, they both served very different purposes; one was blunted and used to help with stability, and the other sharpened to a point  - for use in hunting.” I stared at him, amazed.

“But who would know that?!”

“Anyone who observed the ski poles, my friend. And so any one of these people gathered here had access to the murder weapon. Ah, Hastings,” he sighed. “I have the idea that this is not going to be easy.”


	6. Chapter Six

The doctor arrived quickly and, after confirming Miss Masters’ initial deductions, removed the body. Before he left, he extracted the murder weapon and showed it to Poirot and myself. It was, as my friend had said, sharpened at one end to a point that had allowed it, according to the doctor, to penetrate deeply with fairly little force.

“So the blow could have been struck by a woman?” Poirot asked him.

“Oh yes,” the doctor replied, “Yes, you wouldn’t need much power at all behind it! Could just as easily have been a woman as a man.”

When he had gone, Poirot turned to me. “You noticed it too, my friend? Her little hesitation when I asked the same question?” I started.

“Well, yes, but why should she lie? Surely you don’t think that she could have..?”

“I think nothing yet, but I take notice of everything. There could be many reasons why she lied, Hastings.”

“Well I can’t think of any!” I exclaimed. The little man smiled.

“That is because you do not think at all, Hastings. You would do better to stick to observing.”

“I observed you being your usual finicky self earlier righting that rug on the floor in Smithson’s bedroom! What was the point of that?” I huffed, offended by my friend’s persistent under-appreciation of my abilities. To my surprise, his eyes lit up.

“Of course! Well done, Hastings! Always you point out to me that which I do not see!” And with that incomprehensible change of mood and opinion, he trotted off.

************

When I found him again he was seated with Mrs Carter, but on my arrival he leapt up.

“Ah, Hastings! You have not yet lunched in the village – we will go there for something to eat.” Bowing to Mrs Carter, he took his leave and practically dragged me out of the chalet.

“Enfin!” he breathed when we were out of sight of the chalet. “What a difficulty it is to get you on your own, Hastings! It has been hard enough these last couple of days but now that it is business and not merely pleasure I seek your company for I have to resort to more drastic methods!” I smiled to myself, sure there was a compliment hidden in there somewhere and liking the familiar warming sensation I always felt when Poirot admitted I was of use to him. The restaurant Poirot had chosen was a small one, and as the waiter arrived with our soup Poirot addressed me frankly across the table.

“So, the case, hein?” he began.

“Yes, well we have the facts, so far,” I continued, eager to impress my friend. “We know Mr Smithson was murdered last night just before midnight, stabbed in the back by an ornamental ski pole that had been hanging on the wall downstairs. Everyone had retired for the night by this time, so nobody has an alibi save the two couples, the Carters and the Tavistocks. We know the blow could have been dealt by any member of the party as the weapon was so sharp that no real amount of force would have been needed to be used. And we also know,” I paused before my final point, “That the murderer must have been someone inside the chalet as there was a fresh fall of snow last night.. _but there were no footprints in the snow_!”

Poirot beamed at me. “Always with the footprints, mon ami! But you make a very valid point, the absence of footprints is impossible to fake and proves that it must have been one of the guests who did the crime. Well spotted, Hastings!” I smiled back at him, pleased at his praise but a little uncomfortable nonetheless, as all Englishmen are when their achievements are recognised. Poirot leaned back in his seat, his soup finished. “But this is not all we know. We can make certain deductions from other information we have been presented with.” My friend regarded me over the tips of his steepled fingers.

“We know that the crime was not pre-meditated. By this I mean, the murderer did not come to the resort with the intention of killing Mr Smithson. We have certain clues that point towards it being _le crime passionel_.”

“The murder weapon!” I exclaimed. “If he was planning the crime, he would have brought a weapon with him. But, hang on, Poirot.” A thought had occurred to me suddenly. “How do you know the murderer didn’t bring a weapon with him, and then abandon it in favour of the ski pole to make it look spontaneous!” Poirot nodded.

“That has occurred to me too, mon ami,” he concurred, “But I do not think it likely. Just in case, we will search the baggage of our fellows. However, I do not think we will find anything. I have also inquired of Mrs Carter when was the ski pole in question purchased, and she has told me it came with the chalet when they acquired it fifteen years ago. Just because it wasn’t a recent purchase does not, however, mean that he was not invited here to meet his death.”

“But Carter would never do such a thing!” I cried, outraged.

“There I agree with you,” said Poirot soothingly. “Major Carter seems to me to be one of the few people who was actually fond of his nephew.”

“You’re right there,” I agreed fervently. “I thought he was a nasty piece of work. Especially after what Miss Masters told me!”

“Ah yes, the unwanted attentions of a young man,” murmured Poirot thoughtfully. “Now there is a possible motive for murder..” He trailed off, staring at his fingertips until he was interrupted by the waiter bringing us two delicious looking entrecotes. As we were about to tuck in, my friend reprimanded me sternly.

“You have distracted me from my method, Hastings.” I looked up, surprised. “I was running through the case with order and method and you with your emotional overreactions to my surmising have confused me!”

“I’m sorry, Poirot,” I apologised, somewhat taken aback, “I was only trying to help!”

“You will help by letting me finish,” he replied firmly. “The other clue we have that points towards the murder being done hastily and on impulse, rather than precisely and in cold-blood, is one you pointed out to me earlier.”

“Me?” I cried in astonishment. Poirot frowned. “Sorry,” I muttered, dropping my eyes back to my steak.

“Yes, you, Hastings,” Poirot continued. “You reminded me of the rug that I straightened in the room of the victim. The murderer had kicked the corner in his haste to escape from the room and neglected to fold it back over again.”

“You can’t possibly know that!” I exclaimed, again forgetting the irritation my interruptions caused my friend. “Why, it could have been like that for days!”

“No it could not,” Poirot said gently. “Did you notice anything else in that room that was out of place?” I strained my memory but then had to admit I could not. “Exactement! Mr Smithson was like me, a man of order and precision! The ornaments were straight, the books were piled exactly and the clothes were all neatly folded. A man like that would not have left the corner of the rug upturned, it would have been most offensive to his sensibilities!”

“I think that’s putting it a bit strongly, don’t you Poirot?” I said mildly, knowing full well that to my friend such a thing would indeed have been ‘most offensive’.

“Eh bien, that is all we can say for definite for now,” he concluded. “We will have coffee, and then we will return to the chalet and question our fellow guests.”


	7. Chapter Seven

We started with the Carters. Poirot had chosen the dining room for his investigations and I was sent to summon Major Carter. He seemed to me a most unlikely candidate for the murderer, an opinion which Poirot seemed to share with me as his questioning of the Major was short and to the point. What time had he gone to bed? Had he gone straight to sleep? Had he heard anything? Had he noticed anyone acting unusually that evening? His wife, when she was called in, corroborated his account exactly. They had gone up about ten thirty after playing bridge for some time and gone directly to bed. They had neither of them heard anything and had slept straight through the night without waking, as far as they remembered. When Mrs Carter had gone, I turned to Poirot. 

“Well, that seems to put them in the clear, eh Poirot?” I said with relief. Poirot, to my consternation, did not immediately agree.

“You forget, my friend, that they have had ample opportunity to make sure their stories tally up before we talked to them.”

“But Poirot,” I began heatedly, but was immediately interrupted by my friend.

“We are conducting the investigations organised and methodical! We must look at every possibility, whether you like that possibility or not!” He huffed, and then began again in a calmer tone of voice. “Would you please to go and fetch Mr Tavistock for me?” I acquiesced, still slightly ruffled but more interested in continuing the interviews than arguing with Poirot.

Poirot took a slightly different line of questioning with Mr Tavistock than he had done with the Carters. I am always amazed by Poirot’s ability to choose the method that is most likely to extract information from his subject. With the Carters he had asked direct questions, in Mr Tavistock’s case he seemed to be choosing a more roundabout path.

“On the night of the murder,” my friend began, “You chose not to play bridge. Why is that?” Mr Tavistock looked understandably surprised.

“I’m not very good at bridge,” he confessed. “My wife is much better than I am and I always feel it’s rather unfair on her to have to play with me. I talked to Mrs Havelock instead who was rather good company.”

“Ah yes?” Poirot replied. “About what were you talking?”

“Good lord, I can’t remember! This and that, I suppose.. universities, I think and maybe travelling. We talked about her son a bit, I got the impression she’s a bit worried about him.”

“Worried?” asked Poirot.

“Yes, she thinks he’s wasting his life, not going to university and going to parties all the time, you know the sort of things mothers worry about! I told her all young men go through the same thing and come out alright – he’s only a few years younger than me I think. He just needs to find the right girl and then he’ll settle down.” He rolled his eyes at me. I smiled ruefully back.

“Did you discuss Mr Smithson at all?” Poirot asked. Mr Tavistock jerked his eyes back to my friend.

“What? Oh, yes, I think we did..” He sighed. “Look, I didn’t want to mention it because, well, we weren’t being very nice about him. It all seems a bit disrespectful now.” He shifted uneasily in his seat.

“I understand that, Mr Tavistock,” said Poirot gently, “But you need to tell everything to Poirot if he is going to solve the case.” He paused. “You did not like Mr Smithson, non?” Tavistock looked at him for a moment, and then started speaking rather fast.

“To be frank, no. He’s everything that I hate about men stuffed into one person – he’s arrogant, conceited and has no respect for women. He gambles, drinks too much, argues and puts himself about in the most frightful manner.” He took a breath and slowed down. “Mrs Havelock was worried about her son spending too much time with him; she shared my opinions on the man and didn’t want any of his habits to rub off on Charlie. I think it was the way he addressed the ladies in the party that bothered her most.” He sat up straighter. “Anyway, I told her not to worry, that Charlie had his head screwed on properly and wasn’t likely to be taken in. At least, I hoped not. Doesn’t matter now, does it?” he concluded.

“Non,” agreed Poirot, “It does not. Now, would you tell me, Mr Tavistock, what time you went up to bed?”

“It was about a quarter to eleven, I think. I read for a while, then Elsa came up soon after and we put out the light about eleven o’clock.”

“And you heard nothing?” Mr Tavistock shook his head.

“Afraid not. This fresh mountain air, makes you sleep like a log!” Poirot smiled.

“Thank you, Mr Tavistock, you may go. Would you send your wife in to see me next, please?” Tavistock nodded, and rose. When he had gone, Poirot turned to me. “Most interesting, was that not, mon ami?”

“Yes, most interesting!” I agreed, without the faintest clue of what my friend was on about. Just then, Mrs Tavistock entered the room. Poirot rose and bowed to her, inviting her to sit on the chair across from us.

“Bonjour, Madame,” he said. “Would you begin by telling me about the bridge game you played last night?” She looked startled.

“Oh! Well, it was the Carters again myself and Mr Smithson, and we did rather well. What else do you want to know?” She looked confused. Poirot smiled.

“Did you talk during the game?”

“Of course! Not about anything in particular though, I think the men were talking about the day’s skiing.. it was all just generic small talk. You can’t concentrate on anything too in-depth whilst playing a game, you know. It was all very amicable though.”

“Bien,” said Poirot, “And you went up at what time?”

“It must have been nearly eleven o’clock. John was still awake so we exchanged some brief words and then put the light out and went straight to sleep.”

“So you could not have heard anything either,” Poirot murmured. “Merci, madame. We will take a quick break before we interview the others.” He turned to me. “Hastings, if you would be so good as to make the coffee?” I nodded and rose, accompanying Mrs Tavistock out of the room.

“He’s an odd little man, isn’t he?” she said to me as we closed the door behind us.

“Oh yes,” I agreed, “But he’s quite brilliant, you know.” She smiled and walked off to sit with her husband while I headed over to the kitchen to make the coffee. When I returned, Poirot sent me to fetch Mrs Havelock, replacing a sheet of paper in his pocket as he reached for his drink.

Mrs Havelock gave us a similar account to Mr Tavistock’s of their conversation about Mr Smithson but with more emphasis on her son.

“I didn’t like him, M. Poirot, I’ll admit to that,” she said frankly. “I thought he was a bad influence on my son. Charlie’s not a bad boy, he just lacks direction. He got into Cambridge, Trinity actually, and then he turned round and said ‘I don’t think I will go just yet, mother, I’m off to see a bit of the world first!’” This Mr Smithson was my idea of exactly the wrong sort of man for Charlie to be associating with in his formative years, always off womanizing and throwing money down the drain – it gives a young man a very bad impression!”

“And this is the conversation you had with Mr Tavistock?” Poirot prompted.

“Yes, something along those lines,” replied Mrs Havelock. “It turns out Mr Tavistock went to Trinity; he was rather enthusiastic when I mentioned it and so we had a bit of a chat about that. A good chap, that Tavistock,” she affirmed. Poirot then asked the usual finishing questions; she had gone up to bed fairly early, about ten fifteen and her light was out by half past. She didn’t leave the room again until she got up for breakfast and hadn’t heard anything unusual.

Charlie Havelock was next. He had been in conversation with Miss Masters and they had sat up rather late.

“I think it must have been getting on for half eleven by the time I went up. I didn’t really want to leave Miss Masters on her own but I was jolly tired and she insisted she would be alright. We were the last up, you see, and I didn’t want Mr Smithson to come back down and find her by herself.” He grimaced and looked towards me. “I suppose you’ve told Mr Poirot about his awful behaviour over lunch the other day?” I assured him that I had, then he added, “Mind you, he wasn’t much better to her sister and she was a married woman! I suppose some men are just like that, aren’t they?”

“And you did not hear anything after you went up to bed?” Charlie leaned forward in his seat.

“Well, that’s just it, Mr Poirot, I think I did!”

“Oh yes?” I cut in eagerly, unable to help myself.

“I was half asleep you see, so I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard a sort of muffled thump and an exclamation come from next door. Smithson’s room was next to mine, and I remember vaguely thinking that he must have stubbed his toe and it served him right!” He looked between us. “It doesn’t make much sense, I know, but it must have been nearly midnight by then and I was almost asleep so it may be all wrong.”

“Not at all, Mr Havelock, you have been very helpful! You may fetch Miss Masters now.” As he left, Poirot turned to me, his eyes shining.

“You see, Hastings? It starts to make sense!” I was glad _he_ thought so.

Miss Masters agreed that she had been the last up. She had finished her cigarette and watched the fire dying down for a few minutes and then gone up to her room. That had been just after half past eleven. She had gone straight to sleep and had not heard anything.

“To tell the truth, Mr Poirot,” she said, “I’d had rather too much brandy that evening talking to Mr Havelock. I was out for the count and probably snoring like anything!” Her eyes flickered towards me and then lowered again. She looked slightly embarrassed.

 


	8. Chapter Eight

The next day saw the start of an attempt at returning to normal. Poirot saw no point in confining the occupants of the chalet to the house any longer as the atmosphere was getting increasingly tense and so the majority of the party departed for a day on the slopes not long after breakfast. When they were gone, my friend turned to me. 

“And now, Hastings, we conduct the search!” Contrary to what I thought he meant, he led the way back to Mr Smithson’s room. “I am sure that there will be something of use to us in here, mon ami.” Unsure as to what he meant, I aided him as he rifled through drawers and cupboards but with very little idea what we were looking for. To my surprise, Poirot uttered an exclamation as he stepped back out of the wardrobe. 

“Ah-ha! This may be of great interest!” He was holding up a tie. I felt the familiar stirrings of excitement at watching my friend in his element but knew it would be useless to ask about the tie as he would tell me it’s significance when he felt it right to do so. He beamed at me and I was unable to do anything but return his smile as he tucked the tie into his jacket pocket. He also found several sheets of paper and a little book which seemed to be of great interest to him and which he put away in the same pocket as the tie. 

We then began to search the bedrooms of our fellow guests in minute detail. I thought initially we were searching for a weapon, to see if somebody had come here with the intention of committing murder, but Poirot reminded me continually to keep an eye out for anything unusual at all. I pointed out medicine bottles that I noticed amongst the belongings of both Mrs Tavistock and Miss Masters, but thought that as we were dealing with a case of stabbing rather than poisoning they were unlikely to be significant. Poirot on the other hand was rather interested in them, much to my bemusement. I vaguely heard him making some of his strange Gallic noises over other finds, but as I was engrossed in my own searching and he did not elaborate I was not sure what had sparked his interest. 

It was nearing lunchtime when my friend announced that our search was concluded. We were about to leave for a local restaurant when Miss Masters appeared.

“Ah, Captain Hastings!” she cried. “I was just coming to fetch you. Are you coming out this afternoon? I thought we could have some lunch and then go and join the others.” I glanced at Poirot. 

“Er, well, actually..” I began, but was interrupted by my friend. 

“Why do you not join us for lunch, mademoiselle?” he exclaimed. “We are just on our way now!”  Miss Masters looked between Poirot and myself for a second and then refused politely. 

“I’m afraid I really should be getting back up the mountain, Mr Poirot,” she said. “I had volunteered to find Captain Hastings should he wish to join us but since he doesn’t I don’t want to be left behind!” She left, and I was surprised to find myself both irritated and relieved. 

“Coming to fetch me?” I said indignantly. “I’m perfectly capable of managing my own affairs!” Poirot chuckled and we made our way out for lunch.

 ***************

Over coffee, Poirot again started to go over the case.

“Eh bien,” he began, “There is something most curious to me. Mr Havelock, he says that he hears the noise from next door in the middle of the night. Mr and Mrs Tavistock, who are on the other side of the room of the victim hear nothing. How is this possible?”

“Well, it seems fairly obvious to me,” I said, “One of them must be lying!” Poirot regarded me. 

“That, I too have also worked out. But which one, and why? Also, who is the girl in the photograph in the spongebag of Mr Tavistock?” 

“What?” I cried. “You never mentioned that to me!” Poirot chuckled. 

“Mon cher Hastings, if you do not ask what I have found when I make the exclamations you will never know these things!” He smiled, and took sympathy on me. “This is the photo, my friend,” he told me, extracting a small piece of paper from his pocket and sliding it across the table to me. A young lady, no more than twenty, with large dark eyes and an enchanting smile stared up at me.

“You think he’s having an affair?” I asked. Poirot shrugged. 

“Possibly.”

“That would explain why he kept the photo in his spongebag, so his wife wouldn’t find it!” I exclaimed, warming to my theme. I turned the photo over. “Look! It says ‘All my love, Marie’ on the back.” I looked up at Poirot. “Well, that proves it!” 

“Does it?” he asked, unaffected by my enthusiasm. “But it would not explain why Mr Smithson died.” 

“No, I suppose not,” I agreed, deflated. “Well, what do you think then?” 

“I have my little ideas,” my friend replied mildly, “but they are not as yet fully formed. I am interested in the tie, the photograph, the medicine bottles and the thump that is only heard by one person!” I stared at him in disbelief. 

“You really are the limit, Poirot. How you hope to solve a murder on clues such as those is beyond my comprehension!” 

**************** 

We spent the afternoon sitting in relative silence on the terrace of the chalet. As much as I had enjoyed the skiing, I felt it was important I should stay nearby in case Poirot needed me for anything. I leant on the railings that surrounded the terrace, smoking a cigarette and admiring the view while my friend sat with his eyes closed, swathed in layers of clothing. I recognised his thinking pose and gazed at him fondly for a while before catching myself and snapping out of it. What was I doing? Here we were, two friends on holiday together and I was staring at Poirot like.. My stomach lurched. I was staring at him in exactly the same way that Lucy Masters had been looking at me earlier today.


	9. Chapter Nine

I excused myself quickly and rushed up the stairs to my room. Once inside, I shut the door firmly, locked it and started to pace around in agitation. What was going on? I had heard of such people, of course, men who felt more for their friends than they did for women, but had never met one, let alone considered the idea myself! I had always had a bit of a soft spot for women, especially the ones with auburn hair. None of my relationships had ever lasted long though, I mused, and lately I had often turned down an offer of an evening out with acquaintances to spend it with Poirot instead. My heart raced. No, I told myself, it can’t be true, I’m attracted to women, women like Miss Masters..

My internal monologue trailed off. Miss Masters, who had been making every overture of interest towards me, and whom I had repeatedly rejected in favour of spending time with Poirot. I sank into a chair. Oh God, it was true, it had to be. Now I thought about it, it was obvious. I spent more time with Poirot than with anyone else, not out of necessity but because I wanted to. I had been filled with despair at the idea of coming away without him and too happy when he said he would accompany me. I was always pleased to see him, always trying to help him or gain his approval, always eager to see him smile when, for once, I got something right. It explained why I put up with so much and yet still kept coming back when I could have walked away years ago. I was dumbfounded. I was completely and utterly in love with Hercule Poirot and hadn’t realised it until this second.

There was a knock at the door. I started, coming back to reality with a jolt. I rose and walked over to the door, opening it just a crack.

“Hastings?” It was Poirot. I opened the door wider, feeling the flutterings of nerves as I looked at my friend with new eyes.  He looked up at me with concern. “You are unwell?”

“What? No, no, I just came up to..” I flailed for inspiration, more self conscious than I had ever been in his presence before. “Get another jumper! I got a tad chilly, I’ll be down in a minute.” Poirot smiled and nodded, then turned to go back down the stairs. I closed the door behind him. He must not know, I realised; I must keep this from him at all costs or risk losing his friendship. I must go on as we were. Selecting a jumper from my wardrobe, I steeled myself and went back downstairs.

If my friend had noticed anything unusual about my manner he kept it to himself, for which I was profoundly grateful. I was still shaken by my surprising revelation about myself and had to exercise all my self control to focus on what Poirot was saying.

“I have it, Hastings!” he was proclaiming excitedly, “It has all come clear!” I was distracted.

“You mean, you know who did it?” I asked, flabbergasted. “But who was it?” To my immense irritation, Poirot merely smiled.

“I cannot tell you yet, my friend,” he said, “Not until I have checked one or two facts that will cement my ideas.”

“You might tell me!” I protested, offended. Poirot shook his head at me.

“Non, non, it is better to wait.” I made a noise of irritation, but knowing Poirot as well as I do I knew better than to argue. Sensing my submission, he smiled again and I suddenly noticed how his eyes twinkled when he smiled like that. I felt myself flush and looked away quickly, hoping that for once his sharp senses weren’t as honed as usual. Luckily, at that moment Mrs Tavistock and Mrs Havelock entered and diverted my friend’s attention from me. He rose to greet them.

“Ah, good afternoon ladies,” he cried, “I trust you have had a pleasant day?” He beamed between them.

“Not too bad Mr Poirot,” replied Mrs Havelock, “Just doing a little shopping, or what passes for shopping up here anyway!” Poirot turned to the other lady.

“And you, Madame Tavistock? You have been to the pharmacy perhaps?” Mrs Tavistock looked stunned.

“Why yes!” she replied, “I was picking up some more sleeping tablets as I seem to have less than I thought I did. How did you know?” she asked, obviously stunned at Poirot’s seeming omniscience.

“Just a guess,” he shrugged, with a good imitation of Gallic indifference, “There are not many shops here!” Mrs Havelock chuckled darkly.

“You’re right about that Mr Poirot,” she said gravely, “It makes you wonder how the locals manage!” Still chattering, the two women took their leave and retired upstairs to dress for dinner. I turned to Poirot.

“I say, Poirot, what _was_ that all about? How on earth did you know she’d been to the pharmacy?” I was as stunned as the ladies had been, but Poirot merely smiled his most enigmatic smile and said,

“All in good time, mon ami. I was merely checking a fact, that is all.” Hidden somewhere inside my irritation at his refusal to share information with me was a small glow of pride at the endearment that made me flush again, and I escaped upstairs to dress before Poirot could ask me what the matter was.


	10. Chapter Ten

After supper that evening, Poirot asked that everyone gather in the drawing room. A thrill ran through me as I realised that this meant that, finally, all was to be revealed. I have always been amazed at the way my friend manages to put together all the information that means so little to everyone else and construct a solution to any case. Now, as I waited with the rest for him to start his explanation, I felt an inexplicable surge of pride and had to work hard to quash it to focus on what he was saying.

“Mesdames et messieurs,” Poirot started, bowing to the occupants of the room. “The time has come for me to reveal all. I know who killed Mr Smithson, and very soon all will be clear.

“Let us go over it again. Marcus Smithson was killed just before midnight, a time when everybody had already retired to bed and so the crime was not noted until the next morning. He was stabbed through the back with a ski pole stolen from the wall of this chalet and died from loss of blood. Nobody saw or heard anything, except for Mr Havelock who thought he heard a thump, but was half asleep at the time.” I caught Charlie’s eye and nodded at him with a reassuring smile; he seemed rather alarmed at having his name brought into it. Poirot turned to Mr and Mrs Tavistock.

“On the room on the other side of Mr Smithson, however, nobody heard anything. I found this curious until I realised that you take sleeping tablets, do you not, Mrs Tavistock?”

“Why yes, I do!” Mrs Tavistock agreed, slightly taken aback. “John had mixed mine up for me as usual before I came up, so I took that as normal and didn’t hear a thing all night. I slept unusually well, even accounting for the medicine!” Poirot smiled.

“And you, Mr Tavistock, have already told us of the benefits of the fresh mountain air. Bon.” He straightened up and turned to the room at large again. “We now need to think of motive. Who wanted to kill Mr Smithson?” My friend now turned to look at the Carters, who were sitting holding hands and looking more distressed than any of the other occupants of the room. “I discount you, Mr and Mrs Carter, from my investigation. You were obviously fond of your nephew, despite his faults, and you also both have an alibi for the time in question. I do not believe that either of you killed him.” Mrs Carter sniffed slightly and her husband tightened his grip on her hand.

“Everyone else in this room had reasons to dislike Mr Smithson. Therefore, any one of you may have killed him. Miss Masters,” Poirot rounded on her, “When I asked you if the fatal blow could have been delivered by a woman, you said it could not have been. And yet, when the doctor arrived to take away the body, he disagreed. Why did you lie?” Miss Masters stared at him for a few seconds, then lowered her gaze.

“I was worried,” she began in a low voice, “I’d seen how much he was getting on Elsa’s nerves.. I thought she might have..”

“Lucy!” exclaimed Mrs Tavistock, her eyes wide. “You thought I’d done it?!” Miss Masters turned to her sister.

“I didn’t really! But I thought if there was a chance you might have got annoyed with him and struck out in anger it was best if Mr Poirot didn’t think it would have been possible.” She turned back to Poirot. “I didn’t really think it through, I’m afraid. Your question took me by surprise and all I could think was that you suspected Elsa and I had to protect her!” Poirot smiled.

“An admirable sentiment, mon petit, and luckily unnecessary, thanks to the sleeping pills.” Poirot paused for a moment, seeming to collect his ideas.

“And now, we turn to a different question. To whom does this tie belong?” He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a tie. I recognised it as the one we had found amongst Mr Smithson’s belongings, and was about to speak up when Poirot caught my eye and give an almost imperceptible shake of his head. As I leant back into my seat, someone else spoke up.

“It could be John’s,” said Charlie from across the room. “That’s a Trinity College tie – I bought one before I decided to postpone my studies for a while but I haven’t brought it with me. Did you bring yours, old chap?” John Tavistock looked a little startled.

“I did bring it with me,” he ventured, looking confused, “But I haven’t worn it so I haven’t had a chance to mislay it – it should still be in my room upstairs.”

“You are quite correct, Mr Tavistock,” Poirot turned to him. “This is not your tie. This tie belonged to Mr Smithson, who also went to Trinity College, Cambridge. Perhaps you knew him? You were there at the same time, were you not?”

“I really wouldn’t know, Mr Poirot, it is a rather large college.” Poirot’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You are lying to me, Mr Tavistock. I think you did know Mr Smithson. You certainly had a mutual friend – a young lady by the name of Marie?” John Tavistock went white.

“What do you know about Marie?” he whispered fearfully.

“A little,” replied my friend, “But not everything. Perhaps you would care to fill me in on the rest?” Mr Tavistock glanced at his wife, then looked down at the floor and began to speak.

“Marie was my girlfriend. We were very much in love – at least, I thought we were. She met Smithson through a mutual friend of ours and not long after she told me she was leaving me. She said she’d fallen in love with someone else. Shortly after I got my first job, I heard they were getting married. I threw myself into my work and tried to forget about her, met Elsa and fell in love again. Then I heard the news. A year and a half after their marriage, Marie had killed herself. A friend of hers told me she had been unhappy almost from the start, and when she finally got up the courage to ask him for a divorce he had laughed and told her no. She overdosed on sleeping pills.” Mrs Tavistock reached over and took her husband’s hand.

“That’s why John always mixes my medicine up for me. He can’t stand the thought that it might happen again, even by accident.” Poirot regarded Mr Tavistock for a moment.

“So that is why you have a picture of her with you.” Mr Tavistock nodded.

“Yes.”

“And that is why you killed Mr Smithson.” After a pause, he nodded again.

“Yes.”

For a moment we all sat, too stunned to speak. Then, Mrs Tavistock broke the silence.

“John!” she exclaimed. “Tell me this isn’t true!” John Tavistock rounded on her.

“I did it for you! Don’t you see, he was trying it again? On you or Lucy, or any other woman he met. Marie couldn’t stand him at first, just like you couldn’t, and then he gradually wormed his way into her life and ate away at her until there was nothing left. He was trying to entice you away from me, to make your life as miserable as he made Marie’s! And if you didn’t fall for it, somebody else was bound to eventually and then he’d ruin the life of another young lady. I couldn’t let it happen, not again.” Mrs Tavistock dropped her husband’s hand and leaned away from him, a look of horror and disbelief on her face. Poirot intervened.

“So, Mr Tavistock, on the night in question, you went up to bed early.” Mr Tavistock nodded.

“Yes. I went up and mixed Elsa her sleeping tablets as usual, except I put a small amount more than I usually would in, just to make sure she wouldn’t wake up. When everyone had gone to bed and Elsa was fast asleep, I crept back downstairs to pick up the ski pole I had noticed earlier. I made my way back up and towards his room. He was leaning out of the window having a last cigarette before he went to bed. He never even noticed me.” A wry smile crept over his face.

“I’m not really sorry, you know. It had to be done, to protect my wife. He can never touch her now.”

 


	11. Chapter Eleven

After the police had taken away Mr Tavistock, and Mrs Tavistock was being looked after by her sister and Mrs Havelock, I joined Poirot on the terrace. For a moment we just stood, watching the night sky and enjoying the comparative calm outside after the tension of the evening. Gradually, I started to become more and more physically aware of my friend; how close we were standing, how the heat radiated off him in the cold, how I could hear him breathing and even see his breath as the warmth of it hit the cold air. I started to panic; was I standing too close? Should I say something? Just as I determined to break the silence, Poirot spoke.

“You are tense, Hastings.” He paused, and turned to look at me. “You are not happy with the outcome of this case?” I started.

“No, no, that’s not it,” I replied hastily, “I’m just surprised, that’s all. Tavistock seemed so normal, and in a way, what he did was sort of..” I trailed off, unsure if the word I was about to use would anger my friend.

“Noble, you were about to say? Or something of that kind.” He smiled at me. “It is sometimes hard, mon ami, to see who are the criminals. Le pauvre Marie, had she been murdered, would have had justice done, but to drive someone to suicide is not a crime and there is therefore no justice.”

“Justice can be very subjective,” I remarked. Poirot looked at me and nodded, sighing. Suddenly, I was overcome by the urge to take him in my arms and kiss him. I stepped back abruptly, drawing a surprised glance from my friend.

“Hastings?”

“Very tired suddenly,” I said hastily, “I think I’ll go up. Night old chap.” And, acutely aware of the concerned gaze of my friend, I rushed away and up the stairs.

**************** 

The next day we took leave of our hosts and departed for London.  Much as I had enjoyed the skiing, the trip had not been the pleasant break any of us had anticipated and Major and Mrs Carter were keen to get home themselves. The journey passed mostly in silence; I pretended exhaustion and slept most of the way in an attempt to thwart the feelings that kept appearing whenever my friend and I were alone for any amount of time. Much to my consternation, now that I had noticed them, they were appearing more and more frequently and at thoroughly inappropriate moments. More than once I found myself observing my friend through mostly closed eyelids and reflecting on how absurd it was that it had taken me so long to notice how beautiful I found him, before pulling myself together and shutting my eyes firmly again. I was sure that once I got back to London and we were once again occupied with solving cases I would find it easier to distract myself.

Unluckily, however, there seemed to be a distinct lack of interesting cases presenting themselves to my friend upon our return. I spent most of the first few days back alternating between searching the newspaper for an interesting case to occupy us and going out for long walks to escape the presence of Poirot, who I was having trouble keeping my eyes off and who was starting to notice my odd behaviour. I resolved to stay out of his way as much as possible in order to avoid causing either of us the embarrassment that revealing my feelings would undoubtedly result in.

On the fourth day after our return from Bois-sur-le-Lac, I was seated in my customary seat perusing the papers when I heard my friend return. Deciding immediately to take a walk, I put down my paper and rose to see Poirot standing in the doorway. Despite my heart giving a little leap, I forced myself to act natural.

“Oh, good afternoon, Poirot, I was just on my way out, actually,” I started, making my way to the door, when my friend interrupted me.

“No, Hastings, you were not,” he stated firmly. I gave a start.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, not understanding him.

“I said, you were not on your way out. You were going to sit down and explain to me what is going on.” My heart started to sink; how was I going to get out of this one?

“Since we arrived back you have had the wasp in your bonnet..”

“Bee,” I corrected automatically. Poirot paused, momentarily distracted. “Bee in your bonnet, not wasp.” He smiled, and I almost forgot my resolve to leave.

“Thank you, Hastings. Always I can rely on you. Now..”

“Look, I appreciate your concern old chap, but there’s really no need,” I tried again, but was drowned out.

“There is every need! You have been avoiding me, Hastings, and I do not know why! Do you think I acted inappropriately in the Smithson murder case?” Then it hit me. I was hurting him. Poirot, my best friend, thought that I was avoiding him because I was angry with him. My heart went out to him.

“Look, old chap,” I said, walking towards him, “It’s nothing you’ve done. It’s me. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately and I’m sorry if I’ve been acting strangely. I just need to sort some things out.” Poirot was still looking at me, obviously unconvinced by my half hearted attempt at explanation, and I felt my resolve fail.

“I’m in love with you,” I heard myself saying. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be, it just happened and I’m trying my best to deal with it. Now, if you’ll excuse me..” I pushed past him, grabbing my hat and coat as I went and escaped into the street below.


	12. Chapter Twelve

It was a good few hours after I had stormed out on my friend after accidentally admitting my feelings and the sky was gradually darkening. I was disappointed in myself, for giving in to Poirot so easily and revealing what I had meant to keep secret but also for my reaction afterwards. I was many things, I told myself, but I liked to think that a coward was not one of them. It was this thought that made me pull myself together and I resolved to go back and explain things properly to Poirot. I owed him that much, at least. I made my way back to the flat through the slight drizzle that was now clouding the evening and tentatively let myself in.

“Poirot?” I called softly, as I headed towards the living room. I opened the door and was greeted by the sight of an anxious looking Poirot striding towards me, his arms outstretched.

“Hastings! Enfin!” he cried with relief, dragging me inside the room and pressing me down into a chair. “Thank goodness! Do you have any idea what time it is? I have been so worried about you!” This was not what I had expected to hear.

“You.. you have?” I asked, confused. Poirot looked at me, a familiar exasperated expression on his face and I felt hope stir inside me for the first time in hours. Was it possible that Poirot did not hate me for my admission?

“You storm out of the flat in a state of great agitation and do not return for hours, until it is after dark and beginning to rain. Yes, I have been worried, Hastings.” Under all this, my friend had been making me a cup of tea which I now took gratefully. I tried to compose myself as he sat down on the edge of the table facing me and regarded me closely. Neither of us said anything until I had finished my tea, at which point Poirot took my cup from me and then turned back to face me.

“Now,” he said, “Are you ready to discuss this?” I felt myself colour and looked down at my hands.

“Really, Poirot, I don’t see what else needs to be said,” I mumbled into my lap.

“Non? You do not?” my friend responded, and I was surprised to hear a faint note of amusement in his voice.

“Dash it, Poirot, this isn’t funny!” I returned angrily, embarrassment making me lash out. Poirot held up his hands in a gesture of apology.

“Pardon, mon ami, I was not laughing at you,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice made me back down.

“I know, Poirot, I’m sorry.. It’s just a big mess, this whole thing!”

“Really?” he responded, and the amusement was back. “Then you do not wish to know my feelings on the subject?”

“I think I can guess them,” I muttered sullenly.

“Oh, my Hastings, always jumping to conclusions.” I felt a hand on my chin tilting my face up so I was looking my friend in the eye. “Conclusions that are entirely wrong.”

For a moment we simply looked at each other. There was something in Poirot’s eyes that I had only ever seen flashes of before and had never recognised, something intense and powerful. I felt my breath hitch and became extremely conscious of the fact that his hand was still resting on my face. I swallowed and looked away and Poirot dropped his hand. When I looked back, his eyes were again guarded but there was no doubt of what I had seen there.

“How long?” I asked quietly. Poirot smiled a small sad smile, and again it was a gesture that I knew but had never understood until now.

“A long time, my friend.” We were both silent for a moment as I took in this new and unexpected revelation, and then Poirot spoke.

“Do you still wish to deal with it?”

“Deal with it?” I replied, not understanding.

“Before you left, you said that it just happened and you were trying to deal with it. Is this still what you wish to do?” Suddenly, I understood. Poirot was giving me a choice; even after admitting his feelings for me he was giving me a way out. He was putting my feelings before his, something I was coming to realise he had been doing for a very long time. I was determined it was something he should never have to do again. Reaching towards him, I took his hand in both of mine. It was small and warm, and I stroked across it with my thumb before turning my gaze up to his face. The something was back in his eyes, more intense even than before but clouded with uncertainty.

“I’d like us to find a way of doing something about it.. together?” I suggested. Poirot’s eyes were still uncertain.

“What would you suggest?” he asked, not quite catching my meaning. There was one way of making my intentions absolutely clear, and I resolved to leave him without any doubt as I lifted my hand to his cheek and drew him close to me.

The kiss was soft and gentle to start, a light brush of lips over lips. As I felt the heat from his mouth on mine our inhibitions left us and the kiss grew more intense. I lifted slightly from my seat and slid closer towards my friend, the need to be pressed against him growing stronger as the kiss continued. After a moment, we drew apart. Poirot was flushed, slightly breathless and his eyes were dark with desire. I found him irresistible and leaned forward to kiss him again. This time was less tentative and more deliberate; our lips moved together deliciously and Poirot’s hand moved to the small of my back, pulling me closer until our bodies were flush against each other. When we broke for air, I kept my eyes closed and stayed where I was, a smile on my face. I looked up at my friend and his expression mirrored mine. I chuckled.

“You’re not a dream, are you Poirot?” Poirot also laughed.

“I do not think so, mon ami, although I have had similar dreams on many an occasion..” This made my stomach flip in a strange way and I shivered with anticipation. When I looked back at Poirot, however, his expression was serious.

“I must warn you, Hastings, that if we choose to pursue this relationship there will be no going back. I would not be able to return to merely being your friend after being something more. If you do not wish to have a relationship with me, it would be best if you say so now and we can pretend that this never happened.” I was shocked.

“What do I have to do to make my intentions clear?” I asked in a stunned voice. “If you don’t know how I feel after that, I don’t know how I’m going to persuade you!” Poirot smiled his little smile again.

“That is how you feel now. How will you feel in a year, or two years?”

“Exactly the same,” I stated firmly. “I must have been in love with you for years, too, only you know how slow I am at working things out!” Poirot considered this and nodded in agreement. “You weren’t supposed to agree!” I cried in outrage. “I must love you, Poirot, to put up with you!” At this, he smiled and reached for me again.

“That is what I have always thought, mon ami, it just took you a long time to realise it.”


End file.
